


Will You Remember That I Existed

by AgentCoop



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Japan, Ocean, Post-Side Story: Garden of Light, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25812016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: It's been 7 years since Ash's death and Ibe finally convinces Eiji to come back to Japan.
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Will You Remember That I Existed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GracefulNanami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GracefulNanami/gifts).



> _“I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?”_   
>  _-Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood_
> 
> Written for GracefulNanami. Thank you so much for letting me write your wonderful idea <3

The photo is in black and white–dark wood floorboards of an empty room and a broken upright piano in the middle. There are a few piano keys scattered on the floor next to the instrument, like someone had come into the abandoned apartment and ripped the music straight out.

It was destroyed decay, and as soon as Eiji had stepped into the room next door and looked through the empty window, he knew that the rotting white boards of the sill would frame it perfectly.

It does.

He pulls the photo up from the chemicals and hangs it gently on the wire that extends across his darkroom, frowning as he hears the front door open and close again.

“Be out in a minute,” Eiji calls. There’s no clock in the darkroom, but it feels too early for Sing to be here. Then again, there have been many nights that Eiji has worked until the light of the next morning and doesn’t feel a single moment pass.

“Cool!” Sing calls, voice full of the same warmth and happiness as it always is.

Eiji doesn’t know how he does it–how Sing managed to come out from the chaos of years ago with nothing but a smile. He looks back down at the next photo in the series and watches the black piano keys process even further.

There are footsteps that stop right at the darkroom door. “You have that book?” Sing asks through the wood. “The one you told me about...shit. Can’t remember the name. Beatles song?”

“Norwegian Wood,” Eiji says, grimacing as the the photo becomes even clearer. He hadn’t centered it right. The white window frame that was so perfect in the first version is just ever so off-kilter on this one.

Ruined.

Sighing, Eiji wipes his hands against his pants and pulls the photo anyway, hanging it right next to the other. “On the bookcase,” he says. “Second shelf I think? You’ll find it.”

“Thanks!”

Sing’s footsteps fade back and Eiji washes his hands in the sink, cleaning up as much of the mess off of himself as he can. Then he eases the door open and slips out of the darkroom, blinking against the bright of sunlight in his apartment.

“Thought we weren’t meeting for dinner until six?”

“Got off work early. Figured I’d come–”

Sing’s voice falls and Eiji comes around the corner of the hallway to see him facing the bookshelf, hand hovering at the top shelf, almost brushing against the swell of the tiny piece of black pottery that sits there.

“Second shelf,” Eiji says softly.

“Got distracted,” Sing murmurs.

Eiji pushes long strands of hair from his eyes and sits down on the sofa as Sing looks down to the correct shelf and pulls out the book.

“It’s so innocuous,” Sing says. “I guess I didn’t realize you’d had it sitting here.”

“For years, Sing,” Eiji says with a sigh. “It’s been there for years.”

Shrugging, Sing loosens his tie and comes to sit in the armchair next to Eiji. “Guess I never realized,” he repeats.

There’s a coffee table between them, glass, the kind that you are supposed to lay enormous coffee table books on that will sit there for years and do nothing but gather dust.

There are no books on Eiji’s table–just a notepad of scribbled thoughts and the residual ring of where he’d sat his coffee mug that morning.

There’s a little flicker of resentment that flares in Eiji’s chest at Sing’s obliviousness, and he’s not sure what to say so he stares at the notepad instead of speaking at all.

“So, dinner? I was thinking–”

“How do you do it?” Eiji interrupts. “How do you smile?”

“I…” Sing’s eyes flick towards the urn, then come back to Eiji again. “It’s done. It’s past. The only thing left is to move forward.”

“It’s not about moving forward. It’s about learning to live with grief.”

Shrugging, Sing leans forward and sets Norwegian Wood on the table next to Eiji’s notepad, then leans back into the chair. “I think that’s the same, don’t you?”

“If you think that’s the same, then you don’t know what loss really is.”

Sing freezes, then crosses his arms against his chest. “That’s unfair, Eiji.”

Eiji knows it is, knew it before Sing said a word. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “You’re right. It’s unfair.”

“It’s not just Ash, you know? It’s Lao. It’s Shorter.” Sing looks down, then heaves a huge breath and relaxes, dropping his arms again. “It’s loss. It’s all loss. It’s boys killing boys and there’s no right or wrong there, just sadness. We got out, you know? So shit. Smile I guess. Or don’t.”

A dog starts barking outside, long and loping sounds that go on and on. Eiji can’t tell if it’s a lonely, desperate sound or if it’s a warm, happy sound. Maybe it’s both. Maybe Sing’s right.

He forces a small smile and stands, stretching his arms above his head and working out the knots from the hours spent in the darkroom. “I’m sorry,” he offers. “You’re right.”

Shaking his head, Sing stands too. “Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Eiji confirms. He grabs his jacket and follows Sing out of the apartment, turning and locking the door behind them both.

The worn copy of Norwegian Wood lies on the table, forgotten.

The photo of the piano ends up on the wall of a gallery in Manhattan and is sold within the week. __Such an eye__ , the owner of the gallery says. __Such a talent.__

Eiji smiles and thanks her. Her eyes are big and brown and kind, so when she asks Eiji about doing a possible installation, he agrees that it’s a possibility.

It’s not until he’s home that he realizes she’s slipped a business card in with his check. On the back of it, scrawled in perfectly round cursive, is a phone number and the words __would love to chat some more over dinner__.

At home, Eiji pins the card to his fridge right next to last month's utility bill and the grocery list he’s started for next week.

He doesn’t plan to call her.

He’s in the middle of dinner when the phone rings.

“Eiji?”

Ibe’s voice on the other line is crackly and muddled with static, but Eiji smiles. “Ibe!”

“So glad I caught you! You have a minute?”

“As long as you’re okay listening to me eat.”

“Ah, delightful. Slurp away.”

Eiji does just that, sipping another spoonful of soup while trying not to laugh. “So? How’s Japan?”

“It’s beautiful. And it misses you.”

“I’m sure.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. Japan. Max is coming out in a couple of weeks for a story he’s working on. He’ll be in Osaka, but he extended his trip by a few days to swing up to Izumo and visit. I was hoping...we were hoping...would you like to come?”

Eiji took another long sip, thinking carefully. “A reunion?”

“Doesn’t have to be like that.”

“But it is.”

Eiji could almost hear Ibe’s shrug through the line. “I guess it could be a little like that. Akira’s been asking about Sing. You could invite him along?”

It’s been years. Going back to Izumo was an impossibility in the beginning. There was a happiness there that he didn’t feel he deserved– a happiness there that he could never hope to feel again.

He’d spoken with his mother and sister over the phone sparingly at first, then more as the years passed. His mother begged him to visit, his sister nagged at him.

It just didn’t feel right.

Ash was supposed to be there.

Ash was supposed to come with him, to escape there, to walk the beaches hand and hand and let the nightmares fade to nothingness.

“Eiji?” Ibe asks over the phone.

Sighing, Eiji sets his spoon down. “Ibe, I don’t think–”

“Please.”

The single word is heavy between them, and Eiji can barely swallow.

“Alright,” he hears himself say, even though it’s nothing but the ghost of a whisper.

“Yeah?” Ibe asks, voice too loud and full of too much excitement. “That’s fantastic! Ask Sing. I’m sure he’ll want to come. I’ll get two tickets sent your way–”

“You don’t have to do that, I’ll buy the ticket, Ibe.”

“No. I’m not letting you off the phone to think up a good excuse not to come. I’ll send the tickets your way. It’s two weeks from now exactly that Max will be here. Does that work for you?”

Eiji looks half-heartedly at the calendar that hangs on the wall across from him, even though he already knows there’s nothing on it. “Yeah,” he said. “August 10th?”

“Exactly. Thank you so much, Eiji. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

__How much this means to your family__ , is implied. Eiji picks up his spoon again and lets it trail circles in the broth. “How’s work?” he asks. His heart is beating fast, he’s finding it hard to swallow, but the impossibility of Izumo is suddenly so tangible.

As much as he’d thought he never wanted to return…

It still feels like home.

The trip from New York to Japan is even longer then Eiji remembered. They’d only had two stops–one in Chicago, one in Haneda–then they are in the tiny Izumo airport, stepping out of the tiny puddle jumper onto the tarmac and walking to the waiting room.

Eiji can see Max standing in the window the second his feet hit the pavement. Sing starts waving maniacally and picks up the pace so fast that Eiji practically has to run to keep up.

Other than a few strands of greying hair, and a new pair of glasses frames that are skinnier then the ones Eiji remembers, Max looks no different.

Ibe’s with him, smile bright on his face as soon as he sees Eiji.

“You made it!”

“Made it,” Eiji murmurs, looking past Ibe to the hallway that leads to the baggage carousel. “Mom?” he asks.

“She’s at home, cooking up some grand feast for everyone,” Ibe says. “I told her it was fine and not to bother, but she’s insistent that if everyone is staying at a hotel, the least she can do is cook.”

“Sounds like Mom,” Eiji says with a weak smile. He’d had a 24 hour flight to prepare himself for seeing her again, but his stomach is still twisting into knots at the prospect.

Ibe throws his arm around Eiji and they walk down the hall as Sing and Max follow–chatting enthusiastically and with lots of hand motions about something involving fish, a boat, and a lake full of sewage.

***

Home is still home.

The second the door opens, his mom wraps her hands around him and pulls him close.

Then she starts to cry.

Her head fits against his collarbone just as it used to, but she’s smaller now, body changed and warped with grief from his father’s death. The heavy weight of his decision not to come back falls so suddenly on his shoulders that he starts to cry too, and it takes his sister pushing them into the corner and guiding Ibe, Max, and Sing around the pair before Eiji realizes how much he’s lost by refusing to remember.

His mother speaks to him in Japanese and he falls back to the language easily, tongue wrapping around thick syllables like he’d never been gone. He follows her to the kitchen and stays by her side as she cooks, listening to her badger him about settling down, congratulating him on his photography, filling him in on seven years worth of small town gossip.

It’s nice.

He didn’t imagine it would be, but it’s nice.

They eat dinner.

Akira shows up and fills in every space in conversation that might have existed. She sits next to Sing and Sing watches her with the sort of smile on his face that Eiji recognizes.

It’s the same sort of smile he’d worn to watch Ash.

They drink too much, they laugh just enough, and Eiji goes to bed full of regret that he’d kept himself from this sort of love for so long.

It’s not Ash, but nothing is Ash anymore.

The sadness inside of him wells up and he pulls his suitcase over to him in the dark of the hotel room, unzipping it carefully.

The tiny black urn sits there on top of a week's worth of perfectly folded and pressed clothes. Eiji takes it out and sets it on the polished wood nightstand.

“Izumo,” he whispers. “I miss you.”

They visit the beach.

Sing trails behind Eiji, fingers threaded through Akira’s in a tentative almost-maybe sort of way. His cheeks are flushed as she talks, and Eiji finds himself looking away more often than not, unwilling to intrude.

His sister walks beside him.

“I didn’t think cremation was particularly American,” she says, eyes on the urn in his hands.

“It’s not like Japan,” Eiji answers, “but it’s still fairly common.”

“Oh.”

“His father wanted him buried. It just didn’t seem right. He spent his life trapped. I can’t imagine him spending death under the ground.”

She nods. “You loved him?”

Eiji doesn’t know how to answer that so he stays silent, letting the call of seagulls overhead fill the space between them.

“Mom thinks you’re crazy, staying in New York. She thinks you can have a gallery anywhere in the world and that you’re limiting your potential by refusing to be anywhere else.”

“I know.”

“I think you stay there for love. You stay there for him.”

Eiji nods this time.

She doesn’t say anything else, just nudges closer to him so that their arms brush against each other and he can feel the warmth radiating from her body.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

She leans her head against his shoulder.

Inasa beach isn’t as crowded as it usually is at this time of year. They only see a few other groups of people as they make their way over to the huge rock that juts out of the sand. Sing and Akira walk towards the water, toeing off their shoes and splashing in the rolling waves that come in.

“I’m going to join them,” his sister says with a smile, then runs across the sand.

It’s an act. She knows he needs this moment, and once again, Eiji’s sorry for the love he’s cut himself off from in refusing to see her for so long.

It’s August 11.

Tomorrow would have been Ash’s birthday.

In New York, it’s become a tradition for Eiji to take the train out to the library on the 12th. He sits on the steps next to one of the lions and leans his head against the cool stone, closing his eyes and trying to remember Ash’s smile.

He never cries.

Sometimes he buys a hotdog from the vendor that’s set up on the sidewalk.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

He’s not in New York this year, he’s in Izumo and he kicks off his own shoes, letting his toes curl in the warm sand.

There’s the happy scream of a child in the distance, and he looks past Sing and Akira to see a family standing in the surf, holding the hand of a young girl in a purple and green sequined bathing suit as the waves crash over her legs.

“I miss you,” he says, repeating the words from last night.

In the hotel room, those words hung stagnant in the small space–taking forever to dissipate.

Here on the beach, they’re swallowed by wind and water so quickly it’s almost as if Eiji didn’t speak them at all.

He kneels down and the knees of his jeans soak through with ocean.

The urn is easy enough to open, so he sets the lid down next to him on the sand. His thumb traces over the textured letters on the front.

**__A J C_ _ **

“I wish you could have seen Izumo,” Eiji murmurs. Then he wades out in the water until he’s thigh deep and carefully scatters ashes over the waves.

On the last day of their trip, Eiji’s Mom holds him tight again.

She begs him to visit soon.

He swears he will.

They have dinner all together again with loud booming laughs and quiet nostalgic memories and everything in between.

It’s something happy.

Eiji smiles.

That night in his hotel room Eiji steps out of the shower to a steamy mirror. He waits as it clears, watching each feature come into focus slowly like he’s stepping out from a dream.

His eyes.

His nose.

The curve of his jaw.

His hair curls around his shoulders, plastered to his skin with water. Eiji reaches up and cards his fingers through it, grimacing at the tangles.

It’s been growing for seven years and it’s become something heavy that he didn’t even realize was weighing him down.

Dressing quickly, he leaves his room and pads down the hall to Sing’s. He knocks quietly, and it only takes Sing moments to open the door.

“I have a favor,” Eiji asks.

“Anything,” Sing responds.

“Anything?”

Sing rolls his eyes. “Within reason.”

Smiling, Eiji steps into the room and the door closes behind him. “Do you have a pair of scissors?” He runs a hand through his hair, mouth suddenly unable to form the words it might take to explicitly ask.

Sing understands.

Eiji sits in the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his shoulders as the first locks begin to fall, dark black against the cornflower blue of his pajama bottoms.

“I’m no hairdresser,” Sing laughs. “This looks awful!”

His fingers tickle at the back of Eiji’s neck, and Eiji shivers. “I don’t mind,” he says.

The hair continues to fall, sticking to his arms, to his pants, to the floor.

Eventually, it’s done. Uneven, but short enough that it barely curls around his ears.

“You look like Eiji,” Sing says with a grin.

He does.

***

They board the plane the next morning in a fog so dense Eiji can barely see the tarmac.

No one says anything about his hair.

As the plane lifts off, he tries to look down but there’s nothing but a greyish-white that looks like the color of the waves as they crest against the sand.

Eiji presses a fingertip to the window first, then leans his head against it and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/agentcoop1)  
> 


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